


The Way It'll Be

by tastesansficker (unofficial_channels)



Category: Heat (1995), Rammstein
Genre: 90s Berlin, Bank Robbery, Disabled Character, Heist, M/M, Multi, ich will, the Heat AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unofficial_channels/pseuds/tastesansficker
Summary: Heat, but make it Ich Will
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	The Way It'll Be

When _Politzeirat Kruspe_ picks him up, Lindemann is on his way to Schonefeld. 

The lights go on behind him and flash across his face in the rearview mirror. It’s only a single polizei car. This is a personal call. 

Lindemann acquiesces, albeit begrudgingly, and pulls off onto the shoulder after a minute or two of dragging it out to give himself a little edge in this new power imbalance. He’s got nowhere to go for now - he already knows Kruspe found him by way of state surveillance. Likely unmarked vehicles surround him. They would know exactly where he was even if he were to take a joy ride on the autobahn. More than that, the _Bundesgrenzschutz_ have no hard evidence with which to nail him, just a scent, and Kruspe is no less than a bloodhound. He’ll have to work a little harder than this to bust his score. 

Would be a shame to waste a nose like that, after all.

From his periphery Lindemann watches Kruspe swing his door open and approach him like he’s out for a stroll in the dark Berlin evening. He just schools himself from making a face. Just so, because Kruspe dips down and shoves his own face damn well into the glass. He doesn’t have to motion for Lindemann to roll his window down; they know the drill.

Reluctantly, Lindemann rolls his window down. 

“Guten tag!” Kruspe greets him with the casual aplomb of a friend rather than one of an officer. But fuck is his hair stupid. Lindemann has seen it from afar or in his crew’s own surveillance footage, but he thinks it holds its own stupid weight in person. He’s even smiling, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a baleful sort of cheer in finally meeting that Lindemann doesn’t bother returning. He looks boredly out the windshield instead.

Cars pass. Mostly their drivers only offer a cursory glance at their interruption and continue on. This stop is personal, yes, but also pedestrian, all things considered. Kruspe wears no uniform. Lindemann understands that were it anyone else, it would be an insult. Message received.

Unphased by Lindemann’s reticence, Kruspe sucks in a noisy breath that sounds more like giddy anticipation. “I could use a stiff drink, and I know you could, too.” He takes his sweet time observing the inside of Lindemann’s frankly paltry car for a heist man to further make his point. Then he smiles again, mirthlessly. “Come along, then!”

Before Lindemann can even so much as sigh, Kruspe is already on his way back to his car.

\---

He takes them north. Lindemann follows.

They convene under obvious neon signage. The location is as much a sanctuary in as much as it is a concession. If Lindemann gets the joke, he offers no more than an unimpressed once-over. Kruspe doesn’t even have to flash his badge at security to earn a wide berth upon entry; they know him by face alone. Shadow and smoke pulse between beats heavy enough to rattle his chest as they descend into concrete and steel.

Like he predicted, no one bats an eye. They’re not the weirdest-looking motherfuckers in here, not by far, but they do both still very much look their respective parts. A mohawk goes far in a place like Tresor - a prosthetic hand more so. That said, Lindemann’s size alone makes him an easier mark among clubbers. Reports don’t do him justice; he’s fucking massive. He’s a farther cry from Kruspe’s expectations than he could have ever imagined, and God help him but Lindemann is also a novelty among the criminals he cleans up after these days. 

Besides, it’s not often he’s presented the opportunity to drink with the enemy...not one this good, anyway.

He orders them both top-shelf vodka on the rocks, knowing from his own surveillance Lindemann’s preferences. Lindemann pulls a face at the play. Unspeaking, they watch the eccentric bartender who is both now party to their machinations and inadvertent referee to their standoff, though the poor bastard doesn’t know it - won’t know it. When they get their tumblers from a non-partisan source, Kruspe lets Lindemann hobble after him as he leads them down the basement. He doesn’t look back knowing Lindemann has no choice, and to confront his helplessness would insult him before they even had a chance to speak. Here he can put aside his ego, when everyone and no one is watching.

The basement is muffled enough to hold a conversation comfortably. As they both seat themselves, Kruspe takes stock of Lindemann’s leg from over his carton of American Spirits the same way Lindemann sizes up his hand from across the table. Pointedly, Lindemann does not touch his tumbler. He imagines between thoughtful, tobacco-settling claps that they reach a similar conclusion, then: such is the nature of their work. 

Kruspe finds himself satisfied with his appraisal. Lindemann does, too, by the way he leans back into his chair and clutches at the literal head of his cane. Less calculating, now, more comfortable. Still guarded. He is not his crew’s kingpin for nothing. 

“You like this shit?” he opens, gaze singular and hungry, as Kruspe lights up. 

“In another life, I think I would’ve liked to have been a DJ.” Kruspe carefully hides his own wistfulness behind a long drag and then a shit-eating grin. Lindemann doesn’t take the bait - it’ll take more than shooting the shit to phase him, Kruspe suspects. Instead Lindemann eyes him, his circumspection unashamedly naked on his face. It’s more intimacy than even his soon-to-be ex-wife has allowed him in their years of marriage.

_Well_ , he supposes, _taking down scores doesn’t necessarily require a poker face_. 

“This isn’t that kind of life, though, is it? You and me, we’ve given up on trying to fool ourselves and that’s what makes us good at what we do. Men like you know exactly who they are because they know what they want, everyone else be damned.” 

It’s an astute observation, Kruspe would admit, one that goes straight to his dick.

“Wouldn’t happen to be because you are one of those men, would it?” Make no mistake, he’s well aware of thin veils. Times call for it.

Lindemann doesn’t smile, but his eyes dance nonetheless. “How many people do you suppose can say they really know who they are?”

This is the only place Kruspe allows himself to roll his eyes. He also tamps down a grin and pauses for a thoughtful beat, though he still can’t quite bring to heel his contempt. “Oh, you and me...we’re the lucky ones, are we?”

“Could you see me as some frontman?" Playfully, Lindemann cocks his head. "Honestly, now.” 

There’s a long pause. Kruspe tries not to laugh, even.

“No.”

“Good. Couldn’t see you as one, either.”

A guarded camaraderie settles between them, and Kruspe feeds the mood with an olive branch; over the table he holds out one of the oldest peace offerings in the books. Nicotine won’t satisfy his curiosity, he knows, but he can damn well try. “So what, you already reserve your spot at the _Gefängnis_?”

This time Lindemann does smile. Nice and slow, he reaches for the proffered kippe like he’s drawing cards with his lips. _Alright motherfucker_ , thinks Kruspe. _Sure, I’ll deal you in._

Kruspe pulls away only to stuff his carton back into his pocket. Lindemann waits, patiently suspended mid-action. Their eyes keep steady lock-step with each other. Under normal circumstances, he would let Lindemann sweat, but these aren’t normal circumstances, so he leans forward again. This time he makes it a point to meet Lindemann’s cigarette butt not with a lighter, but his own light. 

Their epicenter glows hotly. Then, as if nothing had happened between them altogether, Lindemann sinks back to take a look around at the historically abandoned bank vault hosting them. His eyes are sharp and hungry even from behind smoke. It takes Kruspe longer to process it all and he stays glued, watching, until Lindemann comes full circle and meets gazes again. A genuine smile finally spans Kruspe’s face. Well played.

“ _Das leben ist kein ponyhof, Politzeirat._ ” 

Kruspe actually laughs despite the fact that Lindemann looks so damn pleased with himself. “Depends on the pony, no?”

But he wouldn’t cut his fucking hair any more than Lindemann would quit heisting after a friendly warning. Maybe they could’ve been those people. 

They’re not.

Lindemann knows this, too. In lieu of words, with one hand, he grips his cane a little tighter and uses its leverage to propel himself from the chair. With the other he tosses his nascent cigarette to his boot and snuffs it under his heel, then tosses back his top-shelf vodka like it’s smooth whiskey. “ _Prost,_ ” Kruspe replies from closer to the ground, and drains his own drink. What a pair they make. 

Lindemann hovers long enough for Kruspe to take his cue and stand up, himself, though not before taking one last pull on his cigarette and dropping it into his empty glass. 

And when Lindemann turns his back, Kruspe follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from dialogue in Heat.


End file.
